


Mind the Gap

by hey_malarkey



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesia Stan, Fluff, Incest, M/M, Post-Weirdmageddon, Sibling Incest, They love each other so much, blowjob, he's recovering his mind he's not completely gone, it is all very gentle, little bit of body worship, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 11:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18260456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hey_malarkey/pseuds/hey_malarkey
Summary: His mind is reeling, trying and struggling to sort itself out. Memories flash in and out and get mixed up out of place and everything is a mess except for one thing; except for one man, kneeling in front of him, with familiar eyes and unfamiliar touch that he wants to get to know better.Ford guides Stanley through the memory loss back to him.





	Mind the Gap

Stan is sitting there, listless. He doesn’t really know what he’s supposed to be doing right now. All the memories wandering in and out of his head have him busy, with a reason or a purpose. But right now he’s got nothing.

He sits where he is, tie undone and coat jacket open, feeling beat up and old and unsure. His eyes unfocus a little as he stares into the distance, beyond the old peeling wallpaper of this house’s walls. He’s seeing old memories walk into his mind, take a look around, then saunter out. Snatches and snippets of experiences and thoughts come and go.

And through it all he’s just. There. A passive party. A man watching his life play out in photographs and moving pictures and silent movies. What does he do now?

The man from before–his brother? Right? Yeah, that sounds right. His brother comes over, leaning into his space, but not taking up too much of it. Hands to his shoulders, grounding him in the moment, bringing his eyes back to a foot in front of him, not miles away. He looks up into the eyes of his brother, and sees the concern there. Sees a few things, but he’s old and he doesn’t have a good memory, so he doesn’t try to place what he’s missed seeing in his brother’s eyes.

“Stan, Stanley, are you alright?” he asks, leaning even further down, letting Stan rest his neck and look at him with a normal angle. One that won’t give him a crick later.

“I dunno,” he answers honestly. He doesn’t even shrug. He settles a little more into place. The cushion knows him better than he knows himself, right now.

His brother’s eyebrows draw together, and he bites his lip, worrying it between his teeth. Stan watches with a fascination he didn’t know he still had.

“How do I help you when nothing’s right?” his brother asks, mumbling more to himself than to Stan, probably. 

Stan doesn’t answer, still watching the way his brother’s face shifts and changes. The smallest details mean the most, right now, right? He watches the minute wrinkling on the skin of his brother’s face. The evidence that one of them aged much, much better, despite the crow’s feet radiating across his features.

Stan kind of wants to touch it, so he does. He lifts one hand that seems to weigh ten pounds, but he lifts anyway, slowly, hesitantly cupping his brother’s jaw.

Eyes snap to his and then down to his hand, but his brother has gone entirely stiff. After a moment he softens again, and carefully gets to his knees to spare his calves from the half crouched position he’d been holding.

Stan thumbs across the cheek in his hand tenderly. He pulls this way and that before moving his thumb down to glance over his brother’s lips. 

“ _Stan_ ,” the man breathes, and the slight warmth on his fingertips gives Stan goosebumps. 

A corner of Stan’s mouth turns up of its own accord, looking down into eyes that are so familiar, yet so distant. He wants that distance to disappear.

But he doesn’t know what to do.

He feels restless, unsure, as he lets his hand drop back to his lap, looking down again. Directionless. 

“Stan–” his brother starts. And that’s another thing, not being able to remember his own brother’s  _name_. Stan doesn’t look up. The man makes a noise, clearing his throat or gathering his nerves, maybe.

“Stanley,” he begins, softly. “I want that too,” he says. And Stan’s not sure if his brother’s a mind reader, but he looks up and sees those soft brown eyes bright and intent and curious.

His brother’s hands are slow but sure, where Stan’s hands are slow and unsure, and Stan appreciates the difference. Those hands, those hands that Stan sees are peculiar, unique, beautiful. Hands that trail lightly from Stan’s knees, skimming over his suit and up his lapels, gathering Stan’s wrinkly face in his hands.

Rough thumbs, calloused and worked trace over the skin off his face, and Stan wants to close his eyes but he doesn’t want to lose another memory. They trace delicately over each eyelid and over stubbly jaw and over short sideburns and wrinkled forehead. They meet as they travel over bumpy nose at chapped lip, resting on the bottom lip a moment before he raises himself higher on his knees, bringing their faces level once more.

Those hands keep him steady, where he is so unsteady, so wrong-footed, so off-balance, and they hold him soft as his brother comes closer, kissing him sweetly. Almost chaste, were it not for the glint Stan sees in his eyes when he pauses, pushes himself back.

His brother’s eyes search his own. Stan doesn’t know what he’s looking for. All he feels is… desire? Is this desire? For love, for attention, for more of those hands over his body? Stan smiles, more of his own volition this time, but still running under some left-over power. He doesn’t feel in control of his body, still feels detached from himself. Drifting, almost. But the hands holding his face bring him back down, and he smiles and his brother smiles and those hands start moving once more.

Light and airy and solid they move down, pulling the tie from his neck, feeling the slither of something cheaper than silk sliding off of him, resting on the ground beside his chair. The fingers working down the buttons of his shirt, feeling his posture slump further and his gut fall farther and he doesn’t feel shame or inadequacy or anything a man might feel at being undressed and so out of shape.

He just feels. There.

It’s the most present he’s felt since everything happened. Whatever that was. So he lets it go on, curiosity brightening his mind, as more memories fall atop each other, trying to confuse him from the now.

His brother hums when his shirt falls open, pushed to the sides as those hands rub over his vast chest and stomach. It tickles, and he smiles. And his brother smiles back at him, lightly scratching over his sag. It’s a dozen small kisses placed over his stomach that make Stan sigh in a feeling he’s not sure he’s ever experienced before. It’s the light flick and rub of two fingers rolling his nipples, not to tease, not to drive crazy, but just to experience the good. It’s rough fingers tickling his ribs and Stan huffing on his breath, not consciously trying to keep it in, but doing so anyway.

His brother smiles as his hands dip lower, eyes rising to meet Stan’s again. It is by touch alone that his brother finds his belt and undoes the notches, pulling it out to rest by his tie. It is by touch alone as his eyes scrutinize Stan, the low sound of the zipper more of a gunshot in the otherwise silent room. The button unclasped and the hands uncharacteristically still, resting on his thighs. Waiting. 

Stan cocks his head, slowly, looking down at his brother. His brother on his knees, touching him with tenderness that belies the blisters on his palms, the strength of his jaw, the stern look to his eye. Touching him softly and quietly and with smiles meant only for him and somehow tapping into the knowledge that Stan wants this to happen. Wanted this for some time, even. 

Stan leans against the back of the couch, lifting himself from the cushion that fits so well, allowing his brother to help him shimmy his slacks down. He crashes back to the chair, even that small effort depleting his stamina. 

He must be getting old, he thinks, as he huffs a few breaths out, much too hard for the small movement the action required.

His brother’s eyes grow their own distance, and Stan doesn’t want that. He lifts one hand, slow, unsure as always, and rests it in his brother’s hair, lightly rustling it around. His brother shakes his head, quick, refocusing on Stan, and smiles a fleeting smile. 

“Thank you, Stanley,” he says, voice a low rumble and a comfort the way thunder lets you know how far away the lightning will strike. A flash of a memory glances behind his eyes, and it takes the man lightly palming him to bring him back.

Stan blinks, looking back down, back into those eyes, as those hands move with that sureness, and Stan melts back down. His brother pulls lightly at his waistband, allowing it to spring free.

He watches his brother bite his bottom lip once more. Those beautiful lips that were so wonderful to kiss– those lips wrap around the head of his dick, coaxing Stan to get hard.

He feels as if he is all jagged edges, no piece fitting together perfectly, his mind a puzzle and his life a broken vase. But the way his brother’s lips fit perfectly over him, the warmth he brings and the feelings that blossom in Stan’s stomach and heart are enough to soothe those jagged edges, for now. He leans back in his chair, head against the worn cushion.

Hand still resting lightly in his brother’s hair. Unthinkingly, or thinking too much, or not thinking just the right amount, he brings his other hand up to cup his brother’s face, a light grip slung over sideburns and side-stripes in his brother’s hair. A small moan breaks his lips and he feels the hum his brother makes around him at it.

Stan does not buck his hips, and he does not tighten his fingers, and he does not fuck his brother’s throat.

He feels his brother swallow around him, feels him bobbing, feels the back of his brother’s throat and he feels spit sliding over his member. 

He feels the build-up of warmth and heat and hot, hot,  _hot–_

searing white light and a thousand star-bursts and he feels something leave him, like his pounding heart gone numb, or his soul right out of his body, or his useless brain and their patchy memories or–

no. Cum left him, went straight for his brother’s throat and he felt the swallowing action resume, felt it when his brother pulled off, felt the string of drool connecting them both.

He looks down, eyes open, as his brother wipes his mouth on his red sleeve. Red like stoplights and red like blood and red like your favorite leaf to crunch in autumn. 

He feels sweat drip down his temple and he feels his chest slowing down its breaths and he feels one magnificent hand interlock with his own, completely encompassing and eclipsing his hands. Those beautiful hands. Rough and tender and grounding and present.

Stan blinks, sleepy, mind full of a new memory and ready to let his mind sort itself out later.

He feels tired but not alone. He feels satisfied, comforted, loved.

He smiles down at his brother, a name swimming tantalizingly close in the forefront of his mind. He feels safe when he looks at him. He feels taken care of. He feels danger and love and adventure and a hundred happy endings waiting on the horizon when he looks into his eyes.

He feels–

“I’m home.”

His brother’s smile breaks brighter and they stand, Stan leaning on his brother and letting the guiding arm around his waist and shoulders show him the way.

He doesn’t know a lot, and he doesn’t know what’s going on, and he doesn’t know how long this will last.

But he feels better with his twin there.

Everything that matters already on his mind, at his side. Guiding him through the gaps, back to what matters. Guiding him home.

**Author's Note:**

> you ever just *clenches fist* want that fluffy stancest? I wanted some soft ford and stan, so here we are
> 
> thanks for reading!
> 
> Comments and Kudos appreciated :D


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